


L'esprit de Mousquetaire

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6798454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the help of his friends, Aramis tries to find something that was taken from him. A gift-fic for Deana. Takes place pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deana/gifts).



> Deana requested an Aramis H/C fic, but I found I couldn’t simply do H/C without a hint of a plot, so if you squint, you’ll hopefully find one. This will be in four parts. Thanks as always to my wonderful beta Sharlot. ☺ What can I say, you rock!

**L’esprit de Mousquetaire**

**Chapter 1**

He really should’ve been paying closer attention. 

The day was warm, the sun shining in the azure sky, a few fluffy white clouds lazily drifting with the gentle breeze. It was an idyllic day for a ride, and Aramis lost himself in the splendor of nature as well as the promise of what awaited him back in Paris. Though the lovely Adele was a distraction of the highest caliber, he knew better than to lower his guard, making himself vulnerable to those who would prey on innocents traveling alone.

He chuckled at the idea of himself being considered anywhere near innocent. Still, he was traveling unaccompanied, and these roads – and the immoral men who prowled them – should never be taken lightly. Tasked with delivering tax notices to towns southwest of Paris, he was returning from his last stop in Mortagne, eager to meet up with his friends in St. Germain for supper before heading back to the familiar walls of Paris. The last to arrive would be charged with paying for the evening meal, and Aramis had little desire to waste his money on something so inconsequential; what little coin he had jingling inside his purse meant for something far more entertaining than a few bowls of congealed stew and a bottle of watered down wine.

“We must make haste, Esprit,” he remarked cordially to his mare. He leaned forward and patted a hand on the big Friesian’s muscular neck. “If we are late, Porthos will be much too hungry and Athos much too thirsty for our scant funds. Besides, you know as well as I these livres are destined for the small broach that will soon adorn the collar of our beautiful Adele.”

The horse tossed its head, whinnying at the mention of the woman’s name, almost as if it were jealous of the unbridled affection in the Musketeer’s voice.

“Oh come now, my love,” Aramis laughed. “You know my feelings for you rival that of any woman.” His tone was light, joyful, easing the mare’s distress, causing her to dance with excitement. 

Aramis loved this horse. Her spirit had been such a wonder to behold. The first time he rode her, she made it clear she was not to be mastered. Most of the other Musketeers had shied away from the lively mare, opting for the more highly trained, responsive mounts, but Aramis had fallen for the big black beauty the moment he’d climbed into the saddle. She’d tossed her head, eyeing her new rider, dancing around as she tested his resolve. After a while, she’d accepted him, but he’d not made the mistake of believing himself superior. He believed he’d found in her a kindred spirit, restless, reckless and a bit unpredictable. They’d been together ever since.

But even a restless spirit can become complacent. Their journey had been a long one and throughout it, images of Adele’s beautiful face and sinewy body had occupied his attention, swallowing his thoughts with the promise of what was to come. It wasn’t just her beauty and touch that lit up his nerves like a fuse, it was the danger, the forbidden aspect of their affair that made Adele so much more alluring than the average woman. Bedding the mistress of the great Cardinal Richelieu was a thrill in itself. Finding said mistress to be a passionate lover and remarkable person was an unexpected bonus.

He could almost hear Athos’ clipped voice chiding him for his recklessness, both his affair and lack of attention to his mission fodder for the swordsman’s probable reprimand. At the moment, Aramis would be hard put to disagree. 

Despite his uniform and myriad of weapons on display, he was surprised to find himself targeted, his distraction lending weight to the bandits’ sudden appearance, his mind adrift with the promise of perfume and warm, milky white skin instead of on his surroundings as it should have been. The five men came up from behind, his inattention allowing them to get close enough to overcome him, forcing him to stop along the edge of the road. The man in front reached for Esprit’s bridal, pulling the Musketeer to a standstill. 

He narrowed his eyes at the bandit, aware of the others spreading out behind and beside him. “If it’s money you’re looking for, I’m afraid I have little to give.”

The man smiled, his tongue pressing through the large gaps between his rotting teeth. “I’m sure we can work somethin’ out.” He leaned forward on the worn pommel of his saddle, the reigns held loosely in his filthy grip.

Aramis spread his hands in an attempt to look as agreeable and non-threatening as possible. “I’m sure we will be able to strike an accord. I am Aramis. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The man frowned, obviously stymied by the Musketeer’s poetic introduction. 

Aramis looked around, noting the others watching him closely yet saying nothing, allowing the first man to handle the confrontation.

“If I could offer some advice? Perhaps the lot of you could ride on.” The Musketeer sighed, slowly lowering his right hand toward his belt. “I’m afraid I am in a bit of a hurry as I am running quite late. My friends will soon come to look for me if I do not arrive in St. Germain within the hour.” He hoped the threat of other Musketeers nearby would give the bandits pause, allow them a chance to realize their prey was not as helpless as they’d hoped before the situation escalated to violence.

“I’m afraid your friends are goin’ to be a bit disappointed,” the bandit responded. He leveled a pistol he’d been hiding beneath his dusty and frayed woolen cloak. “How about you get down and hand over the horse so we can be on our way?”

It was more of an order than a suggestion. Unfortunately for the bandit, Aramis had never been all that good at taking orders – especially from ilk like this. Besides, he’d become quite attached to this horse.

His smile was a touch predatory as his body tensed. “I believe I must respectfully decline.”

Before the man could respond, Aramis drew his own pistol from his belt and fired, catching the bandit right between the eyes. A cry went up from one of the men on his left and the Musketeer turned, pulling his dagger from its sheath with his free hand and throwing it across the distance with deadly accuracy. The polished blade caught the second man’s arm as he reached for his own weapon, piercing it just above the wrist. The man’s eyes went wide before a howl of pain rose from his throat, causing his horse to rear, throwing him to the ground.

A second shot rang out and Aramis felt his world explode. His vision burst into a white fire, pain racing along the side of his head, his senses reeling. He didn’t remember falling but he found himself on the ground, flat on his back in the tall grass, his eyes unable to focus, his hearing muddled as if under water. He shook his head, immediately realizing his mistake as the dull thud escalated into blazing agony.

Forcing himself to his knees, he reached for his sword, using the sturdy sheath to aid in his balance. Blinking away the gray dots coalescing in his vision, he stumbled to his feet, pulling his sword, holding it in front of him. He wasn’t sure if it was him swaying or the ground, but he was fairly certain the three men approaching should not be wavering like they were. He stepped back, his boot slipping on the grass, his already questionable balance suddenly disserting him altogether.

As he fell back onto his ass, he managed to keep a grip on his sword, forcing it out in front of him, hoping it would keep them back long enough for him to regain his senses. Trying frantically to calm his breathing, Aramis scuttled back as one of the men crouched down directly in front of him.

“That was very impressive, Musketeer. Outnumbered and at a disadvantage, you still managed to take out two of my men. I’d heard the King’s elite guards were formidable. For once, the rumors appear to be true.”

Aramis swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut against the mounting pain in his head.

“Happy to… be of ass… assistance.”

The bandit chuckled at his bravado. “I have no desire to kill you. I simply need your horse. I’m sure the regiment will provide you with another animal of fine quality.”

Aramis tried to respond, but the agony in his head was becoming overwhelming and he couldn’t force the words from his mouth.

“We can’t leave him alive, LaMere. He’s seen our faces.” The voice came from beyond Aramis’ limited field of vision, and the Musketeer didn’t have the fortitude to attempt to track it. 

The bandit leaned closer, his eyes narrowing, studying the wounded soldier. After a moment he shook his head, sighing. “You’re probably right. It’s a shame. He fought well. Though I am only being paid for the horse, the Musketeers are Gaudet’s problem.” He returned his attention to Aramis, who’s attention was beginning to drift. “I am sorry, Musketeer.”

Aramis barely registered the butt of the pistol coming toward him, and was at a loss to do anything about it.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

LaMere stood, his eyes still on the Musketeer lying in the grass at his feet. He hadn’t been lying about his admiration for the man’s skills, his uncanny accuracy with the pistol and dagger nothing short of amazing. He had always harbored a furtive desire to become one of the elite soldiers, but being the son of a thief hardly carried the influence to allow such an opportunity. Blanchet was right – there was a chance the Musketeer would’ve retained enough of his wits about him to identify them. Despite his reluctance to kill such an honorable opponent, he couldn’t take the chance. 

The Musketeer had fought valiantly against overwhelming odds, obviously believing he could emerge victorious; and he quite possibly could have if they had fought with swords rather than cutting the fight short with a pistol shot to the head. The ball had carved a deep groove in the Musketeer’s temple, blood flowing from the wound, staining the man’s hair and beard. The second blow had rendered him unconscious and from the look of him, LaMere doubted he’d ever wake up at all.

The youngest of his men stomped over, coming to a halt near the Musketeer’s head. “Is he dead?”

LaMere waved his pistol toward the insensate man before tucking it back into his belt. “Find out. If he’s not, take care of it.” As he turned to make his way back toward the road to check on the others, Thibault nudged the Musketeer with his boot. The man showed no reaction.

Thibault crouched down, turning the bloody head to study the wound. “Pretty bad,” he announced loudly. “I saw a man with a wound like this once. He never woke up.” He released the Musketeer’s head and reached past him for something lying in the grass. His face lit up as he stood, holding a shiny brass plated pistol up for the others to see. “This is a fine weapon,” Thibault remarked enthusiastically, petting the shiny metal as if it were a cat. “I could do a lot with somethin’ like this.”

“You can sell it,” LaMere told him. “A weapon such as that is lost on the likes of you.”

Thibault frowned at the insult, but continued to rub the gun with his grimy palm. As LaMere stepped back onto the road, the younger man thrust the weapon into the back of his belt, quickly pulling his faded vest over the grip.

LaMere crossed the road, stopping in front of his other two men. Hands on his hips, he watched as Blanchet pulled the Musketeer’s dagger from Rousseau’s arm, shaking his head at the scream the tore from the wounded man’s throat.

“You sound like a woman in childbirth,” he chided, kicking the man’s outstretched leg. He turned his attention to his second. “How bad?”

“He’ll live,” Blanchet responded without taking his attention from the bandage he was wrapping around the bleeding arm. He tilted his head back toward the road. “More’n I can say for Volclain. The Musketeer had good aim.”

LaMere grunted his agreement. It would be inconvenient to replace Voclain, but he didn’t feel much remorse for the man’s death. “Get Voclain’s body on his horse than help Rousseau mount up. We still need to find two more mounts before we meet up with Gaudet and his men.” He pulled himself up on his own horse, reaching forward to grab the reins of the Musketeer’s fine mount. He glanced at the solider, still lying unconscious in the grass. “Adieu, Aramis of the King’s Musketeers.”

With a tip of his hat to the fallen soldier, he turned the horses and led the others back down the road.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis twitched, raising a hand to swat at the pesky fly buzzing around his ear. The fly buzzed louder, and the Musketeer turned his head, scrunching his eyes as his brain sloshed against the inside of his skull. His stomach clenched, gorge rising into his throat, and he barely managed to roll over before heaving bitter bile into the tall grass. The pounding in his head kept time with his rapid heart as he purged himself of whatever was left of his last meal.

Sweating and panting for breath, he let himself fall back onto the ground, groaning at the unpleasant sensations rolling up and down his body. The damn fly still buzzed in his ear, and he swat at it again, his hand making contact with a sticky wetness on the side of his face. Stopping to fully assess his situation, Aramis slowly realized he was lying on the ground, outside, the tall grass tickling his cheek as it fluttered in the breeze. 

He pressed his hand against his temple, identifying the sticky substance as blood.

Well, that explained the headache – and the nausea. 

Taking a deep breath, he grimaced at the foul taste in his mouth and forced his eyes open, only to be met with the blinding light of the sun. Swallowing hard to keep the bile from rising once again, Aramis placed a hand over his eyes, keeping himself still until he had some semblance of control over his body once again. Keeping his hand up to shade his eyes from the glare, he cracked them open again, waiting as the swirling colors coalesced into the more recognizable pattern of trees, grass and sky. 

He dropped his hand to his side, suddenly exhausted. The buzzing was still loud in his ear, and Aramis began to turn his head from the annoyance before thinking better of it and taking another swat at the determined insect. After a few moments, he came to the conclusion the buzzing was coming from inside his head rather than outside, a deduction that did not bode well for his overall condition.

The medic in him knew he was most likely concussed, the soldier in him realizing he was alone and ultimately vulnerable.

His horse!

The memory of what had happened came rushing back, almost making him lose the tentative control over his stomach again. Swallowing thickly, he pressed his hands against the soft soil and pushed himself up, letting his head fall forward as he slumped into a sitting position. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the tacky blood already matting the dark curls. Pressing lightly against his temple where the sharpest of the pain resided, he felt a long gash running from his brow past his hairline. 

He couldn’t tell if it was still bleeding, but the tight, itchy skin on his face and neck indicated it had bled quite a bit while he lay there, the buzzing in his ears and the lightheadedness he was now experiencing indicative of heavy loss. He needed to find help.

His eyes drifted slowly around, noting the trampled grass leading back up to the road. The sun was beginning its decent, the sky starting to take on a darker hue. Despite what he’d told the bandits, Aramis knew he could not wait for rescue. Athos and Porthos would not begin to worry for him until after sunset, believing him held up by business in one of the towns on his route. He had little desire to spend the night outside with no provisions and unarmed –

His hand went around his waist, relieved to find his main gauche still nestled in the scabbard behind his back. His pistol was nowhere in sight, but a quick look to his right showed a glint of metal and he leaned carefully, sighing as his fingers touched the metal of his sword, cooled by the shade of the grass. He pulled the weapon back toward him, sending a quiet prayer of thanks that his circumstances were not as dire as first suspected.

He took a deep breath, pleased that the ache in his head had somewhat dulled. It was still pounding, the incessant buzzing continuing to annoy him, but he didn’t feel as if his head would roll completely off his shoulders if he moved it. Believing that to be as good a sign as he was likely to get, Aramis shifted to his side and onto his knees and pushed himself to his feet, using his sword as a cane until the ground leveled out and he could regain his precarious equilibrium.

Once the gray cloud disappeared from the edges of his vision, Aramis glanced at the road, noting the tracks in the soft dirt. Easily recognizing Esprit’s hoof prints from the chink in her shoe he’d been meaning to have taken care of, Aramis squinted down the road, his eyes following the trail the bandits had taken his horse.

He really had no idea which way he’d been heading, his mind still reeling, his sense of direction muddled by the pain still pounding away inside his skull. He trudged back onto the road and began to follow the tracks, not knowing if it would lead him to the bandits or his friends, trouble or salvation.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos guided his mount to the post just outside the Tavern doors. It had been a long, miserable ride and he was looking forward to sitting down on something that wasn’t moving as much as the wine and food the tavern promised. Looking around as he dismounted, he recognized Roger, Athos’ big black gelding, hitched to the post closer to the stables. Another glance around told him Aramis had yet to arrive and he grinned, looking forward to the marksman paying for dinner.

Their mission had not been pleasant, nobody taking the news of the King’s tax increases well. It wasn’t unexpected for the people of the towns to protest to the bearer of such bad news, though there was little the Musketeers could do besides sympathize with their plight. Porthos agreed it wasn’t fair for the Crown to take so much of what the people worked long and hard for, but it wasn’t his place to do anything but deliver the bad news and perhaps, allow them to vent their frustrations. As long as they made no outward threat to the King, Porthos was inclined to ignore their harsh words, knowing it was not him they were angry with but the situation neither of them could do anything about.

Which was why it felt so good to have this entire mission behind them; the chance to sit down and commiserate with his friends was something Porthos had been looking forward to the entire journey back. And now, knowing it wouldn’t be his coin they were spending, his satisfaction had doubled.

Pushing his way through the group of men huddled near the bar, Porthos immediately spotted Athos sitting at a table in the far corner. The swordsman already had a bottle of wine open before him, three cups spread across the worn wooden top. Porthos ambled toward his friend, dropping into a chair and reaching for a cup as Athos finished pouring.

“Looks like it’ll be Aramis paying for our supper,” Athos remarked dryly as Porthos downed the wine in one gulp.

The big man grinned. “He probably got held up by some pretty face. His weakness for women will be the death of him.”

“Especially if he continues to court the ones belonging to powerful men.”

Porthos hummed his agreement. “He ain’t courtin’ ‘her, he’s sleepin’ with ‘er. But I think he’s pretty taken with this Adele. He’s not actin’ like he usually does once he’s gotten a woman into bed.”

Athos took a sip of his wine, his brow raised in curiosity. “Oh? How so?”

Porthos shrugged, not sure if he wanted to spill all of Aramis’ secrets. “He just has a way of smiling when he’s truly in love.”

“Aramis is always in love.” Athos scoffed.

“True, but most of the time it’s just a passing fancy. This one is more than that. I think it caught him by surprise.”

Athos snorted a laugh. “Well the Cardinal will give him a surprise if he catches them together. Aramis enjoys the danger a little too much in my opinion.”

Porthos chuckled in agreement, reaching for the bottle and pouring a generous amount into his cup. “Well he wouldn’t be Aramis if he didn’t.”

Unable to contest the statement, Athos raised his arm, motioning for the barmaid to bring them another bottle. Porthos settled back into the chair, content to relax with his friend until their errant marksman arrived. They were well into their second bottle when a young man sauntered into the tavern and cozied up to the bar near the door. The lad wore a dusty tunic covered by a worn leather vest, his light hair stringy and windblown. There was little about the lad that would catch anyone’s eye – except the polished brass pistol stuck in the back of his belt. Even from across the room, the intricate etchings on the brass plates of the barrel were as familiar to Porthos as his own hand. 

“What is it?” Athos reacted to the bigger man’s sudden stillness, frowning as his gaze passed over the room, searching for whatever had alarmed his friend. “Porthos?”

Without a word, Porthos gently placed his cup back on the table and pushed himself from the chair. His gate was slow, predatory as he made his way across the room, and the few patrons who found themselves in his way hastily moved once they got a look at the expression on his face.

The big Musketeer squeezed in next to the new arrival at the bar, his pauldron carefully angled away from the young man’s view.

“That’s a nice pistol you have there,” he said conversationally, his face carefully blank of expression. “Had it long?”

The lad, either too excited or too naive to pick up on the immediate threat, grinned at the bigger man, pulling the pistol from his belt and holding it up so that the etchings caught the light. “It’s something I just picked up,” he crowed. “Thinking of selling it. You interested, Monsieur?”

Porthos returned the grin, his eyes narrowing. “I am.” He ticked his head toward the door. “Maybe we should discuss terms outside?”

The lad frowned then shrugged nonplussed. “If you prefer.” He took a gulp from the mug before him on the bar, and started for the door, pistol held tightly in his grip. 

It wasn’t until he had stepped outside and moved a few paces from the tavern that he turned around and caught sight of the pauldron strapped to Porthos’ shoulder. His eyes went wide and he turned to run, only to come face to face with Athos’ icy stare.

“I believe you have something that belongs to a friend of ours,” the swordsman said evenly. 

The lad swallowed and looked down at the pistol in his hand. It only took a moment for him to surrender it to the Musketeers.

As soon as Aramis’ pistol was safely tucked into Athos’ belt, he stepped back allowing Porthos to grab the young man and shove him into the wall of the tavern. “Where did you get the pistol?” he demanded, his eyes dark and menacing, his voice a low growl. “Where is he?” He pressed his forearm against the lad’s neck, effectively cutting off his air and rendering him speechless.

The boy audibly gulped, his mouth open as he attempted to draw breath. His hands gripped Porthos’ arms, trying unsuccessfully to move the bigger man from his stance.

“Porthos,” Athos cautioned. “He cannot confess if he cannot speak.”

Porthos grunted once, but immediately let up on the pressure and stepped back.

“I’m not goin’ to ask again. Where’s Aramis?”

The young man dragged in a long breath, rubbing his throat with one hand while extending the other to the road leading out of town to the west. 

“About an hour’s ride that way,” he choked out. 

“Is he alive?”

The lad nodded, his eyes shifting to Athos at the inquiry. “He was when we left ‘im.”

Porthos growled low in his throat. “He would’ve never let you leave with that pistol if he could help it.”

“He’s alive,” the lad assured quickly. “I swear it. LaMere wanted me to finish him, but I didn’t. He wasn’t moving, but he was still alive.”

The two Musketeers exchanged a glance as their prisoner looked away, quilt covering him like a cloak. If this fool had been able to get away with Aramis’ prized pistol, it did not bode well for the marksman. 

“And just why would this LaMere have the audacity to attack a Musketeer?”

Another growl from Porthos got them their answer.

“The horse! He wanted the horse.”

“There have been reports of some thefts from stables west of here,” Athos confirmed. “But I’ve not heard of anyone being attacked on the road recently.”

“LaMere said it was too good a thing to pass up,” the lad said, eager to be of help now that the immediate threat seemed to be past. “The horse was exactly what he’d been looking for.”

“Aramis was riding Esprit,” Porthos sighed. “He’s not goin’ to be happy about losing her.” He spoke to Athos but kept his eyes on the prisoner. “That is if he’s in any shape to be unhappy about anythin’.”

“He was alive, I swear.” The young man held his hands in front of him, palms out in oath. “He wasn’t looking too good, but I didn’t kill him. Just told LaMere he was done for.”

“You better not be lying to us.”

The boy shrank from Porthos’ intimidating bulk. “I’m not. If you hurry, you could still save him.”

“Find some rope,” Athos ordered. “We will turn him over to the local magistrate –“ He watched as Porthos stepped forward and leveled a quick punch at the man’s face, knocking him unconscious immediately. “Or we could do that.”

Porthos leaned forward as the man fell across his shoulders, hefting him up like a sack of grain. “Let’s get him delivered. Aramis doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Since they knew Aramis’ route would’ve taken him to Montagne and Blois, they opted to follow the road to the former, assuming their friend would’ve gone south to the furthest point of his assigned course and looped around back toward Paris. Their young bandit had been little help after Porthos had ‘secured’ him in the cellar of the tavern, instructing the keeper to alert the magistrate and threatening violence if the prisoner wasn’t there for them when they returned. Athos had toyed with the idea of bringing him along in order to glean information from him, but his unconscious state made it more work than necessary; their concern for Aramis and their need for haste making leaving him behind a calculated risk they were more than willing to take. Besides, the lad was nothing more than a hired thug as far as they could tell, quite willing to say whatever they wanted to hear to save his own skin. They would get more out of him about the thefts if he was kept prisoner, awaiting their return, his memory of Porthos’ rage and his own imagination doing most of the intimidation for them.

They were a little more than an hour out form St. Germaine when they came upon what could only be the scene where their friend was attacked. There were three separate areas where blood stained the ground, two on the road and one just off the side in the tall grass that grew there. The grass was matted down in a long, narrow track, ominously the exact body length of a fully-grown man. Porthos was off his horse, kneeling down by the bloodstain on the road within moments of their arrival.

“Not much here,” he observed. “But it’s pooled in one spot. Whoever this is from didn’t move until he was dragged away, probably dead.” His eyes followed some drag marks in the road that ended abruptly a few steps away.

Athos grunted in agreement, his eyes raking across the blood soaking the ground at the other two spots. The one on the road was spread out, as if the victim had moved about, but there were no drag marks indicating whoever it was had been able to progress under his own steam. “This one looks as if the wounded man moved of his own accord.” Something glinted in the sun and Athos dismounted. He crouched down and retrieved a very familiar dagger from the weeds just beside the road near the bloodstain. He held it up to Porthos.

“That’s Aramis’ dagger,” the big man acknowledged.

Athos nodded. “Apparently he was able to wound two of them,” he surmised. He squinted toward the tall grass on the opposite side of the road, a flicker of bright blue filtering through the waving green. “What’s that?”

Porthos followed his outstretched finger and waded into the grass. As Athos stood, Porthos bent down, reaching for something, his expression grim. When he turned, Athos understood why.

Porthos held Aramis’ hat in his hands, the blue and green peacock feather bent and broken, hanging limply down the side.

“He never goes anywhere without this damn hat,” Porthos mumbled, disheartened by the discovery. “At least not if he’s in his right mind.”

Athos swallowed hard, not liking the scenario that was forming in his head. There were boot prints leading down the road, but they were scuffed as if someone had shuffled their feet, too weary – or disoriented – to step with purpose. The bloodstain in the grass was larger than Athos was comfortable with, but it was near the far end near the spot the hat had fallen, leading him to believe their friend had suffered a head injury. How serious an injury still remained to be seen, but knowing head wounds tended to bleed quite a bit, coupled with the fact Aramis had obviously managed to make it back to his feet, lent hope that they would find him still alive.

“There’s a blood trail,” Porthos pointed out.

Sure enough, a few paces from the shuffle of prints in the road, a couple large splatters of blood were barely discernable on the dusty ground. Athos let his gaze drift further, finding more drops leading down the road.

“He’s going the wrong way,” the swordsman observed.

“He’s going after the horse,” Porthos stated.

Athos huffed in agreement. “Most probably. I suppose we should go after him before he gets himself killed.”

Porthos sighed, slapping the hat on his thigh. “When we find ‘im, I’m just might kill him myself.”

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It wasn’t long before they came upon Aramis’ sword, abandoned in the dust. It was Athos who dismounted to retrieve the weapon, frowning at the bent tip of the metal.

“At least we know we’re headin’ the right way.” Porthos observed, waiting anxiously while his friend secured the sword on his horse and remounted. “How far ahead do you think he is?”

Athos shrugged. “He couldn’t have gotten too far with a head wound.” He pointed to the tracks still obvious in the dirt. “His stride is not strong, nor his steps firm. I doubt he’s moving quickly.”

The two Musketeers had discussed their missing marksman’s probable injuries, both agreeing from the placement and amount of blood back at the attack, he had most likely suffered a blow to the head, which could leave him disoriented. It could explain why he was moving in the opposite direction from help – disoriented or confused – though Porthos’ initial belief that Aramis had gone after the men who’d taken Esprit wasn’t entirely dismissed.

It was another hour before they pulled their mounts up, their gaze locked onto the shuffling form silhouetted in the glare of the setting sun. Aramis was struggling, his head bowed, his feet dragging through the dirt like he was wading through water. His arms were wrapped around his torso as if they were all that were holding him together. He took no notice as they rode up behind him, but kept placing one foot in front of the other in determined, dogged steps.

Shaking his head in fond exasperation, Porthos handed his reins to Athos and slid from his saddle, slowly approaching the marksman. Reaching out, he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, his breath catching in his throat at the toll of exhaustion he could feel shuddering through the marksman’s frame.

“Aramis.” He kept his voice soft, non-threatening, not knowing how the wounded man would react.

Aramis stilled, breath coming in short staccato bursts. He swayed slightly in the breeze like the grass beside the road.

“Aramis?” Porthos called again, stepping around his friend, locking both hands on Aramis’ arms as much in need as support. “Hey, you in there?” He chucked a finger under the dirt and bloodstained beard and pushed the marksman’s head up. 

His concern doubled.

The side of Aramis’ face was covered in dark, congealing blood. Porthos raised a hand, gently parting the matted curls, finding a long furrow that traveled from the bruised temple well back into his hairline. It was obviously a gunshot wound and Porthos forced himself to swallow his anger. It was so reminiscent of the injury Aramis had suffered at Savoy, Porthos had to close his eyes for a moment to regain some sense of equilibrium.

Aramis’ eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring through Porthos rather than at him. The taller man ducked his head in an attempt to catch the marksman’s wandering gaze.

“Aramis?” He punctuated the name with a gentle shake, cupping the bloodied cheek in one hand, tilting his face up. “Can you hear me?”

It seemed like an eternity before Aramis’ eyes managed to focus, and Porthos let out a choked laugh when the familiar dark orbs finally showed a semblance of recognition.

“P’rth’s?” the name was slurred, barely recognizable, but Porthos smiled brightly at the sound nonetheless.

“Who else? What have you gotten yourself into this time, my friend?”

Aramis slumped into himself further, letting some of the tension drain from his body as the sudden appearance of his friend began to register in his sluggish brain.

“Stole m’orse.”

Porthos brows climbed toward his hairline. “Huh?”

“I think he’s saying someone stole his horse,” Athos interpreted as he approached behind Aramis. The marksman didn’t turn around, just nodded once before allowing his head to fall forward onto Porthos’ chest. The big Musketeer chuckled fondly and carded a hand through the curls on the back of the bowed head.

“Told you,” he shot Athos a knowing grin.

“It is too late to return to St. Germaine as it will be dark soon. We should find someplace to make camp and see to his wound.” Athos looked around, pointing out a clump of tall bushes just off the expanse of tall grass. “There. There appears to be a small clearing. The bushes should provide adequate cover.”

Without waiting for an answer, Athos began to lead both horses off the road, through the grass, leaving a pressed down path for the others to follow.

Porthos placed a kiss on the top of Aramis’ head. “How ‘bout we get you comfortable, huh? Take care of all that dried blood? It’s got to be pretty itchy by now.”

Aramis didn’t raise his head, but twisted it back and forth against Porthos’ doublet.

“Esprit,” he mumbled.

Porthos heaved an impatient sigh. “Forget the horse, ‘Mis. You’re in no condition to fight. Besides, Athos is right. It’ll be dark soon. Let’s worry about it in the morning.”

Aramis suddenly went boneless, forcing Porthos to tighten his hold to stop his friend from dropping to the ground in a heap. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Porthos leaned forward, letting Aramis’ pliant form drop across his shoulder and hefted him up with a grunt. They would tend his wound and clean him up as well as they were able, waiting until morning to spirit him back to St. Germaine or, if he was up to it, back home to Paris where he could get the attention he needed. Porthos prayed his stubborn friend would cooperate, but knowing how Aramis felt about Esprit, doubted it would be quite so easy.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“He’ll be fine.”

Porthos grunted at Athos’ assessment, arms crossed on his chest, eyes on Aramis’ sleeping form near the fire. He hadn’t moved since they’d laid him out on Porthos’ bedroll, using the water from their canteens to clean the dried blood from his face and head.

The bullet had left a long but, thankfully, not deep furrow on the side of his head; serious enough to cause an unenviable headache for the next few days, but shallow enough to avoid severe damage. Upon further inspection, they’d found a second lump further back in the mess of hair. Obviously the marksman had been struck after he’d been shot, which raised their concerns further. Two blows to the head could render a man bereft of his senses more permanently, but Porthos told himself if anyone could come out of this completely intact, it was Aramis. The marksman had been in a situation quite similar before and survived, there was no reason to doubt he would do so again.

“It won’t be like Savoy.” Athos crouched by the fire, adding new branches to keep the flames dancing in the darkness. “If that is your concern.” 

It was, and it showed an uncanny ability to read his thoughts, an indication of how well his friend knew him to address a concern he’d been hesitant to consider out loud. “How do you know that?” Porthos wasn’t convinced, the image of Aramis’ blank, bloody face bringing back the vivid memories of finding him in that snowy clearing all those years ago, the bodies of twenty Musketeers lying scattered around him.

“Because Aramis won’t let it be.” Athos sounded so sure, Porthos almost allowed himself to believe it. “He’s like a cat,” the swordsman observed as he settled near Aramis’ side near the fire. He unconsciously tugged the blanket up over the sleeping man’s shoulder. “No matter how far he falls, he always seems to land on his feet.”

“Except this time he landed on his head.”

Athos shrugged in concession. “So it would seem. But he was aware enough to give pursuit – slow as it was. And he did not falter until he knew he was safe in our care.”

“Since when are you such an optimist?”

“I’m not.” Athos looked down fondly at their sleeping friend. “I just know that despite a penchant for finding trouble, Aramis is one of the most capable soldiers I’ve ever known. It will take far more than a bullet graze to the head to take him from us, Porthos.”

The big Musketeer managed a grin. “Yeah. He’s too stubborn to die.” He shifted, finding a more comfortable position against the fallen log he rested against. “He’s still goin’ to want to go after the damn horse.”

“We will persuade him to reconsider.”

“And when he insists?”

Athos sighed. “We will go after the damn horse.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis was warm, comfortable despite the pounding in his head that had forced him from slumber. There was a crackling nearby, the scent of burning wood floating around him like a blanket. The breeze on his face felt refreshing, helping to disburse the heat from the flames. There was the low murmur of conversation beside him, the familiar voices giving off a sense of peace and safety he had come to rely on.

“I think he’s wakin’ up.”

Aramis heard someone shift and felt a hand card through his hair. The sigh of contentment escaped before he could stop it.

“Yeah,” Porthos’ chuckle was close, the hand stilling at the nape of his neck. “He’s definitely wakin’ up. Come on, ‘Mis. Open your eyes. Let us know you’re all right.”

The concern in Porthos voice made him attempt to comply, though his lids seemed much too heavy and the act much trickier than expected. It seemed like hours passed before he blinked his eyes open, the dancing flames coming into focus behind the dark silhouette of his friend.

“There you are,” Porthos smiled, leaning back, allowing the orange light to catch the side of his face.

Aramis winced at the sudden brightness, blinked again and Athos appeared as if by magic. 

“I don’t think he’s quite with us yet,” the swordsman observed.

The world was spinning and his stomach heaved, bile hot in his throat. Aramis felt something push at his lips, a hand gently lifting his head from the cushioned ground. 

“Drink, Aramis.”

It was an order, and though he normally balked at orders, he was willing to give this one some effort.

The water cooled his throat, but pooled in his stomach like acid. He drew back with a grunt, swallowing thickly, desperately trying to keep it down, knowing it would be a very unpleasant return trip. His headache notched up a tick and he frowned, the wound on the side of his head pulling with the motion.

“Easy,” Porthos soothed. “You’re doing good. Just take it easy. Breathe.”

Aramis did as instructed, unable to think past the escalating ache in his head. He sensed himself being lowered back to the ground, moaning, the world tilted behind his closed lids. A hand pressed against the top of his head, nimble fingers rubbed against his scalp in an offer of comfort.

“Shhhh,” Porthos continued his litany of soft words. “Just take it easy. You’re safe. We’re not going anywhere.”

He didn’t know how long he lay there, listening as Porthos’ voice washed over him. He wasn’t really paying attention to whatever his friend was saying, the cadence and familiar tone enough to ground him, giving him a chance to find a tentative balance between the pain and reality. After an indeterminable amount of time, he chanced opening his eyes again, this time pleased that the world seemed to remain still.

“M’srry.” His own voice ratcheted the pain higher, but he swallowed down the discomfort, needing to let his brothers know he was all right.

“You don’t need to apologize for being attacked,” Athos informed him.

Aramis disagreed. “I wasn’ paying ’ttention,” he mumbled, trying to sound contrite. “M’mind was elsewhere.”

“No doubt already back in Paris with the lovely Adele,” Porthos presumed, a touch of amusement coloring the indictment.

Aramis hummed in response.

“I did tell you she would end up causing you harm, didn’t I?”

Aramis squinted his eyes open, frowning at Athos’ accusation.

“It was hardly Adele’s fault I was distracted,” he argued, coming to the defense of his lover despite the obvious evidence to the contrary. “I did manage to kill one of them.” His thoughts were clearing and his strength returning even though he was quite confident something as mundane as sitting up could be a bit beyond him at the moment.

“Apparently the wrong one,” Porthos mused, running a finger down the side of Aramis’ head near the wound.

“Despite coming out of this with your head mostly intact,” Athos continued unabated, “cuckholding the Cardinal can bring nothing but trouble.”

Aramis moaned dramatically and closed his eyes against the throbbing pain as well as Athos unfailing logic. “So you have said. Repeatedly.” Though he normally enjoyed baiting his more conservative friend, he simply wasn’t up to his usual standards of debate at the moment.

“Aramis, I am only concerned for your continued wellbeing.”

“You worry too much.”

“I fear I don’t worry enough.” Athos sighed. “If the Cardinal discovers your affair, he will find a way to make you pay. Perhaps with your life.” 

“Athos,” Porthos intervened. “Perhaps this can wait until he can actually fight back?” Athos huffed in defeat and Porthos chuckled at the expense of his friend. “Besides, the Cardinal is a man of God. He couldn’t formally charge Aramis with anythin’ since he could never openly admit to havin’ a mistress in the first place.”

Aramis grunted in agreement, finding mere sounds easier to contribute to the long-standing discussion than actual words.

“I still believe he is playing with fire,” Athos conceded. “I just do not wish to see him get burned.”

Aramis smiled, his friend’s concern not lost on him. He enjoyed being able to rile the normally composed swordsman up once in a while, and would never admit that some of his exploits were construed to do just that.

“I still want to go after Esprit,” he changed the subject, knowing it would probably set them both off again. It wasn’t that he didn’t realize he was in no shape to track down and confront the thieves that had stolen his horse and left him to die, but he owed it to the mare to at least try. She had been the finest horse he’d ever had and was not ready to give her up, no matter what it might cost in pain. Besides, he had allowed the bandits to defeat him far too easily; his honor as a Musketeer impugned, the need for remuneration crucial.

“Aramis –“ this time it was Porthos arguing.

“They took Esprit. I want her back.” He knew he sounded petulant, but it was a matter of honor and he would not back down.

“He’s got a hole in his head and he’s worried about the horse.” Aramis could almost feel Porthos shaking his head in disbelief.

“She’s a good horse. More than that, she’s a friend. We’ve been through a lot together.” He didn’t mention his other motivation, but didn’t fool himself into believing they weren’t already aware. “I’ve been tracking her by the nick in her shoe.”

Porthos grunted, impressed. “You were able to follow that?”

Aramis shrugged. “It gave me something to focus on,” he admitted. “Keep myself moving.”

“How many were there?” Athos asked, his tactical mind already calculating the odds.

Aramis forced himself to think. “Not counting the one I killed, four, I think. I wounded another with my dagger, but that’s when things get a bit hazy.” He reached up and ran a hand over the gash in his head, wincing as his fingers touched the wound. 

“Even if you weren’t distracted, five to one odds are a bit daunting,” Porthos consoled. “Even for you.”

Aramis opened his eyes, gracing Porthos with a grin in appreciation of his support. “Are you going to help me or not?” He shifted his gaze between the two, trying to will them into agreeing to his plea. When the big Musketeer glanced at Athos and shrugged ruefully, he knew he’d won.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah.”

Aramis nodded, pushing himself up awkwardly until he was sitting. His head began to spin and he swallowed thickly, hoping to keep the water he’d just managed to drink where it belonged. He knew his friends’ help in finding Esprit hinged on his ability to convince them he was up to the task… he just wasn’t all that sure he could pull it off.

“That’s not a good idea,” Porthos cautioned, backing up, his hands outstretched, ready to catch the marksman when he inevitably fell on his face.

Aramis waved him off, rolling the opposite way to his knees, pausing as his head began to pound anew. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he struggled to his feet, his eyes squeezed tightly as the world tilted and his stomach clenched in rebellion. He swayed, his balance teetering dangerously, reaching out, flailing for something to hold on to.

Hands grabbed him, pulling him against something solid, firm, keeping him from plummeting back to the ground. He panted, trying to regain his balance, finally giving in and allowing the hands to gently ease him back down, propped up against something warm. After a few moments, he opened his eyes to find Athos holding him against his chest.

“I assume you still have enough sense to avoid trying that again in the near future?”

Aramis managed a grunt of acquiescence. 

He groaned as Athos shimmied out from under him, jostling him as he lowered him back to the bedroll. As soon as he was lying down, Aramis sighed in relief, the pain radiating through his skull leveling off into something more manageable.

“Well that was fun,” Porthos grunted.

Athos snorted a laugh. “We have very different ideas of fun.” He shifted back against a tree, winded by the burst of activity. “Aramis, you are in no condition to go traipsing after horse thieves. We should return to St. Germaine and retrieve our prisoner. Perhaps he can tell us something about these thieves’ whereabouts. Treville can send a troop out after them.”

Aramis shook his head, his mind still reeling, but determined to convince them all the same. “No. Please. I need to – what prisoner?”

Porthos chuckled. “Wondered if you’d heard that. One of ‘em showed up with your pistol. Young kid, not too smart. That’s how we knew where to find you.” He crossed the small camp, pulling the familiar brass plated pistol from a saddlebag. Crouching down next to Aramis, he held it out, smiling as the marksman’s eyes widened in surprise. 

Aramis looked up at his friend in wonder, but the big man just shrugged. “Figured you’d want it back. Don’t see guns like that every day.”

Touched, Aramis smiled in gratitude.

“So you see,” Athos explained. “We’ve no need to follow the tracks. It is quite possible our prisoner will be able to give us the location of his comrades without putting you or ourselves at undo risk.”

Aramis closed his eyes, pulling the pistol to his chest. He knew Athos was probably right, but he couldn’t abandon Esprit. And he seriously wanted to make them pay for what they’d done. Nobody attacked a Musketeer and got away with it -- especially if he could do something about it. He had no idea how to explain it to them, the pounding in his head making it more and more difficult to think.

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to do this. I need to get her back.”

It was a long moment, the crackling fire the only sound, and he may have drifted until finally he felt a hand on his head. He opened his eyes to find Athos’ staring down at him, eyes dark in the shadows, brows raised in surrender. “We will find Esprit, Aramis. We cannot track them in the dark, but if you are able when light dawns, we will follow them as long as it is safe to do so.”

Content with the promise, Aramis let himself succumb to sleep.

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Morning dawned gray and cloudy, the threat of rain heavy in the air. Porthos had taken first watch, waking Athos halfway through the night before hunkering down near Aramis to keep tabs on the wounded marksman in case he was needed. Fortunately, Aramis managed to sleep through the night, still breathing relaxed and easy as the light began to filter through the heavy clouds above.

Athos rekindled the fire, assessing the weather, considering renewing their discussion about turning back to St. George. He knew it would be another battle with their determined friend, but if the heavens opened up upon them, the rain would wash away the tracks, leaving little choice but to give up the search. Considering Aramis’ condition, it would be much more prudent to forego the attempt to track the bandits altogether, return to Paris and report the incident to Treville. Athos had no doubt the Captain would send troops out to apprehend the thieves, hopefully returning Esprit to her rightful owner.

Though he was not naïve enough to pretend the horse was Aramis’ sole reason for wanting to pursue the men who had left him to die. He knew the man’s pride had been tarnished – being on the losing end of a fight was never something a Musketeer took lightly – and while he was inclined to support Aramis’ motives, he still felt the need to caution his friend on the folly of his decision.

As the fire caught, renewed, Porthos woke, opening his eyes, taking in the immediate area in the light of day. He shifted to an elbow, leaning over the sleeping marksman, one hand gently parting the hair covering the gash. As the wound was no longer bleeding, they had opted to leave it uncovered last night after cleaning it as best they could, hoping the fresh air would aid it in scabbing over, protecting it more thoroughly than any make-shift bandage. Without Aramis’ horse, they had few medical provisions, the marksman serving as their unofficial medic, carrying a kit containing needle, thread and clean bandages. Porthos had offered up his shirt, but Athos had waved him off, believing it better to keep the wound open than cover it with something that could allow infection to set in.

“How is he?”

“Still out.” Porthos pushed himself up and stretched, taking the cup of warmed wine that Athos held out. The big Musketeer eyed the clouds, his lips pursed in contemplation. “Think he’ll change ‘is mind?”

“I doubt it.”

“So we’re still goin’ after the horse.”

Athos nodded once. “The horse, and the men who took her.”

Porthos dropped down next to Athos on the log, both men watching their sleeping friend across the fire. “He thinks he has somethin’ to prove.”

“Possibly,” Athos conceded. “Whether he does or not, those men still attacked a Musketeer. It is our duty to see them punished for their crimes.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “Now you’re startin’ to sound like Aramis.”

Athos feigned a look of affront, causing the big man to chuckle. 

“Apologies, my friend.”

“Accepted.”

The two of them broke camp, wanting to have the horses saddled and packed before waking their wounded friend, allowing him as much rest as possible before the journey. With only two horses, they would have to ride double, slowing their progress and leaving them vulnerable if they needed to execute and escape. The horses were strong, solid mounts, able to carry two men quite a distance if not pushed too severely. They would take their time, hoping to find something before the inevitable rain fell, covering the tracks and forcing them to reevaluate their plans.

Aramis moaned as he rolled onto his back, taking a long moment to blink fog of sleep from his eyes. He was still pale, dark circles under his eyes accentuating the tired, pain countenance, but his eyes were determined and Athos was satisfied he wouldn’t pass out on them any time soon. He moved with much more ease than the previous evening, able to stand on his own once Porthos helped him to his feet. 

“You sure you’re up for this?” Athos asked, handing him a flask of water. 

Aramis took the skin and drank deeply, gently probing the gash on his head with nimble fingers. “It still burns,” he replied honestly. “And my head is still pounding, but I don’t feel like throwing up anymore, so that’s progress.”

“Good,” Porthos called over his shoulder as he tightened the strap on his saddle. “Because that would be unpleasant.”

“For you and me both, my friend,” Aramis returned with a grin. He shifted his attention to Athos who was studying the wound intently. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of this again?”

“Would it do any good?”

“No.”

“Then why waste the effort?” The corner of Athos’ mouth ticked up at the exchange. “Besides, we can’t allow men who wantonly attack the King’s guard to run around free now can we?”

Aramis smiled. “No. We cannot.”

“Then we should probably make haste before nature makes it all but impossible to follow them.”

mmmmmmmmmmmm

He rode behind Porthos first, the movement of the horse making the pain in his head spike with every step. The water in his stomach sloshed uncomfortably as he bounced with the animal’s gait making him wish he had accepted the offer of bread Athos had extended before they left camp. His stomach still tender despite his claim to the contrary, he had waved the crusty morsel away, thinking it would be easier to keep control if there were little to bring up in the first place. But even empty, the constant movement and renewed pain had made his nausea return, and he had been forced to constantly swallow it down, quietly miserable, hoping to hide his declining condition from his friends. 

Aramis kept his jaw set, eventually allowing his forehead to settle on Porthos’ broad back as they moved down the road. If the big man noticed the show of weakness, he made no comment, but Aramis was aware of the scrutiny focused on him by both his brothers just the same.

It was almost midday when the rain began to fall, the tracks they had been following quickly disappearing under the steady drops plummeting from the dark, overcast sky. Aramis shivered as the wind picked up, knowing his strength was waning, his endurance almost at an end. He would need to stop soon or he feared he would no longer be able to maintain even the thin façade of health he currently endeavored to present.

Not that he believed they were buying his ruse to begin with.

He was currently positioned behind Athos, who had clamped a hand on Aramis’ right thigh, holding on as if it was his grip alone that held the marksman fast to the horse. Aramis had to admit that perhaps it was, the touch giving him a much-needed anchor in his cloud of misery. His bottom was almost as sore as the rest of him after enduring the morning riding without the comfort of a saddle, but he dared not complain, knowing the journey was his idea, the others either unaware of the depth of his discomfort or ignoring it in order to teach him a lesson. He doubted his brothers would be so cruel considering he was wounded, and would readily switch places with him if he asked, but the need to atone for his mistake was overwhelming and he made every effort to muffle the groans and indications of distress his body tried so desperately to emit.

When the storm increased, Aramis couldn’t stop the all over trembling caused by the chill that had somehow worked itself into his bones. He felt something drop onto his soaking head and reached up, surprised to feel his hat perched precariously on top. Grasping it before the wind could catch at it and carry it away, he seated it firmly, ignoring the flare of pain as it rubbed against the tender furrow.

He looked to his side to see Porthos grinning. “Didn’t know if you’d be able to wear it with… you know.” He tapped a finger to the side of his own head. “But you looked pretty miserable without it.”

Aramis managed a smile, coughing to clear his throat before responding. “I feared it lost forever. Thank you.” 

With his pistol, dagger, sword and now his hat returned to him, Aramis found he was no longer quite so miserable, feeling as if he was one step closer to himself. The fact that his friends had known how much these meager possessions meant to him and had thought to retrieve and return them to him warmed him from the inside, chasing the cold from his body. 

He sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders as Athos brought his horse to a halt.

“There’s a town up ahead.” Athos nodded toward the thatched rooftops that poked out above the rise straight ahead. “We will inquire about our bandits there. I’m sorry, Aramis. If they cannot provide us with any information –“

“Then our search is over,” Aramis finished for him. “I understand.”

He did. The tracks were gone, they had been following the road for the last hour simply out of respect for his needs, but he couldn’t ask them to continue without any evidence to tell them which direction to go. He appreciated their acquiescence to this point, but knew it would be wrong to ask for more.

If they came up empty in the town, he would agree to return to Paris and report the theft to Treville, hoping the Captain would send out a troop to investigate. He hated the thought of losing Esprit for good, but he had to accept the rationality of the situation. Despite his desperate need to redeem himself – and recover the horse – he was in no condition to continue and his brothers were needed back in Paris. She was only a horse, though his heart refused to allow his head to convince it of the fact. 

Athos urged Roger on, and Aramis closed his eyes, praying a small seed of redemption awaited them.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 

The deluge had the horses slipping in the mud as the road quickly became saturated. But the rain also had the advantage of covering their arrival in the village and the three Musketeers were able to sneak into the stables without being detected. While they had no proof the thieves had entered let alone taken refuge in the small village, they remained wary, knowing even a slight slip in their vigilance could spell disaster. 

Porthos slid from the saddle and moved quickly to the other horse, lending a hand as Aramis slowly dragged a leg over Roger’s hind end, letting himself fall into his friend’s waiting arms. He was shivering in earnest now, the rain having soaked his leathers, the brim of his hat sending rivulets of cold water down the collar of his shirt.

“We need to get you warmed up,” the big Musketeer observed as he led the marksman further into the stable and leaned him up against an empty stall. He looked around. They seemed to be alone; anyone with half a brain finding their way inside to a nice warm fire while the rain poured down outside. It was still early afternoon, but the thick clouds and heavy downpour masked the sun, leaving most of the interior of the run-down stable in shadow. Porthos felt the wind through the slats of the walls and shivered, knowing if he was cold, Aramis in his weakened state had to be freezing.

Athos approached with a blanket that smelled of horse and hay and draped it across the shivering man’s shoulders.

“It would appear we are the only fools out in this weather.”

Porthos snorted a laugh and wiped a hand down his face to dry his skin. “Think they’d mind if we started a fire?” He glanced around at the hay and old wood, knowing the answer before anyone responded.

“Perhaps we could wait it out in the tavern,” Athos suggested. “If the men we seek rode through, it would be the best place to inquire.” He turned his attention to Aramis who was still shivering despite the added warmth of the blanket. “And if they haven’t been seen, we could still use some wine and warm food.”

“And a p-place to d-dry off,” the marksman stuttered.

Before either of the other Musketeers could agree, a soft, familiar whinny echoed from the shadows. Aramis’ head rose at the sound, his eyes searching the darkness toward the back of the row of stalls.

“Espirit?”

A loud snort and stomping of hooves came the immediate reply.

Pushing past Porthos, Aramis shuffled toward the sound, clutching his blanket to his chest with one hand, using the other for support along the tops of the stable doors. About halfway down, just where the meager light from the still open doorway melted into shadow, he stopped and turned, his hand reaching for something in the darkness. The shadow shifted and Porthos realized it wasn’t a shadow at all, but a black horse, its nose pressing against Aramis’ outstretched palm.

“There you are, girl,” the marksman crooned, leaning his entire body against the door of the stall and using both hands to grasp the horse’s head. “I’ve missed you.” 

Esprit stepped closer, allowing Aramis to lay his forehead against hers for a moment before tossing her head, nickering in greeting. 

“Apparently we’ve found the right place,” Athos observed.

Porthos grinned, watching his friend interact with his beloved horse. The blanket dropped from the marksman’s shoulders, but Aramis didn’t seem to notice, too elated to have found what was taken from him.

“You think they’re still here?” Porthos asked, his gaze shifting to the open stable doors. The rain blanketed the view to the rest of the town, making the question difficult to answer.

“It would be odd to go to all the trouble of attacking Aramis for the horse and then leaving her here unattended.”

Porthos nodded, agreeing with Athos’ assessment.

“So what’s the plan?” He tilted his chin toward the man and horse further down the row of stalls. “He’s in no condition for a fight. And we can’t just take her and ride out until this storm lets up some.”

Athos breathed out through his nose, nodding in agreement. “Though I would like nothing more than to apprehend these thieves and bring them to justice, I believe seeing Aramis back safely to Paris is of more importance at the moment. If he is agreeable, we should head out the moment it is safe to do so.”

Porthos bristled at the thought of leaving the men who’d wounded his friend and left him to die without even a taste of reprisal, but he knew Athos was right. Aramis was in no shape to fight, and even though they knew at least one of the thieves was wounded, they had no idea how many more men were involved, or if the town would support them. It was better to escape, quietly, with their prize and send out a patrol to track these men down once they’d returned to Paris safely. He would even volunteer for the mission himself. Of course it was Aramis they had to convince. His pride had been wounded as much as his body, and Porthos knew the marksman well enough to know he would not take losing his chance at retribution lightly.

“Who’s goin’ to tell him?”

“Aramis may be stubborn, but he is not a fool,” Athos replied firmly. “He will listen to reason.”

Porthos snorted his opinion on the matter. “And if he doesn’t?”

Athos shrugged. “Then we tie him to the saddle, and beg his forgiveness later.”

Porthos smiled. “I like the way you think.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Rain barreled down on the roof of the deserted tavern like a herd of horses. LaMere had wanted to push on, but with Thibault still missing – likely due to the storm – and Rousseau whining about his arm, he’d decided to hole up in the village until the rain passed. There was no sense risking the horses they’d managed to procure, his buyer quite clear about delivering the animals in good condition or else.

LaMere had dealt with men like Gaudet before – though stealing for a Red Guard was definitely a new one in his book. He’d wondered at the man’s request; specific breeds like those used by Musketeers, but hadn’t bothered to ask. The money was good and whatever Gaudet had planned was none of his business.

It still troubled him though, having to kill the Musketeer. He had no aversion to killing – he’d been at it for most of his life – but the man had fought with courage and skill, and the thief couldn’t help but be impressed. If he had to choose, he would work with the Musketeers over ilk such as Gaudet any day. He may be a thief, but he still understood honor. Though his profession may not have entirely been his choice, it was all he knew and he would do it to the best of his ability. It was hardly respectable, and most would label it downright criminal, but when you had to steal to eat, your morals took a hit as your skills turned toward survival. 

LaMere had never pretended to be anything other than what he was, a thief and a criminal. He knew if he was ever caught, he’d probably be hanged or shot dead, which was why he usually made an effort to surround himself with men he could trust – at least as far as you could ever trust a thief. The man the Musketeer had killed had been one of those, but he found he held no rancor towards the soldier. Volclain had been too brash, assuming the lone man was an easy target. LaMere would never know if Volclain had noticed the pauldron on the Musketeer’s shoulder, but his impulsiveness had been his undoing, allowing the Musketeer to get an edge and paying for his foolhardiness with his life.

Now LaMere was a man down – two if you counted the kid, Thibault. The youth had been sent into St. Germaine to deliver a message to Gaudet that they had what he’d been looking for and arrange a place for delivery. He’d probably decided to head for one of the many taverns and have himself a drink. It wasn’t that LaMere would deny any of his men a pint of ale, just not on his time. If the fool lad wasn’t back by the time the storm let up, LaMere would be forced to send the only other able-bodied man he had to St. Germaine to find him. And wouldn’t Blanchet just love that?

Thunder boomed in the distance and LaMere took a sip of his ale, sliding his chair a bit closer to the fire to ward off the chill. He was worried about how the horses were faring considering the noise the storm was making, but his concern wasn’t enough to make him want to charge out into the deluge when the fire was so warm and comfortable.

Blanchet came down the stairs from the room he’d finally deposited Rousseau to get him to stop moaning for a while and dropped into the chair opposite. LaMere shoved a mug of ale in his direction.

“He’s out,” Blanchet said without waiting for an inquiry. “Finally.” He took a long draw from the mug and leaned back, settling his drink on his stomach. “I swear he has the pain threshold of a kitten.”

LaMere laughed in agreement. “That Musketeer had good aim.”

“Impressive,” Blanchet agreed. “Too bad.”

Thunder boomed again, closer and louder than before.

“Looks like the storm is goin’ to blow through quick,” Blanchet observed. “Think the horses are all right out there?”

LaMere shrugged, nonchalant, as if he hadn’t just been asking himself the same thing. “If you’re so worried about ‘em, why don’t you go check on ‘em.”

Blanchet sighed, seeing the suggestion for the order it was. His lip rose in a sneer as he glanced outside. “It’s really coming down.”

“Afraid of a little rain?”

Blanchet scoffed, his eyes narrowing at the challenge. “I ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

“Then get a move on. If those horses get spooked, we’re out a pretty sum of gold.”

Annoyed, Blanchet drained the rest of the mug and slammed it down on the table before rising and heading for the door, pulling a cape from a hook on the wall. LaMere smiled. It was about as close to insubordination as the man would get, and it amused him to no end how easy it was to rile Blanchet into action. He sat back and took another sip of his ale, motioning to the barkeep to bring another round. He might as well keep Blanchet happy. With Volclain dead, Rousseau injured and Thibault God knows where, his options were presently quite limited.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“You want to let them go?”

Porthos chuckled, raising his brow to Athos and tilting his head toward their exasperated friend. 

Athos sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before turning to confront Aramis. “It is the best plan considering.”

“Considering what?” Aramis stood just outside Esprit’s stall, hands on hips, face painted in disbelief. “These men attacked a Musketeer. That can’t go unpunished!”

Athos held out a hand, placating. “And they won’t. We will inform Treville and send out a patrol to track them down and arrest them.”

“But we can do that now!” Aramis insisted. “If we allow them to escape, we may never find them again. We don’t even know who they are.” He turned and slapped a hand against the post behind him, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead into the wood. “This is preposterous!”

Athos looked to Porthos with wide eyes, holding a hand out toward the marksman in an obvious ‘your turn’ gesture.

“Aramis,” Porthos began, only to be interrupted when the man in question flashed his dark eyes in the big Musketeer’s direction.

“Toi aussi, mon ami?”

Porthos sighed, flinching at the accusation on the familiar face. He shook his head and took a step closer. “You know he’s right. If we went after them now, there’s no tellin’ how many of ‘em we’d have to fight – and you know there’d be a fight. Something you’re in no condition to handle at the moment.”

Aramis frowned, petulant. “I can fight.” He held up a hand before Porthos could retort. “I can at least shoot. And there were only five of them. One is dead, another wounded. I think we can handle three men even if I am not at my best.”

“I’m not saying we couldn’t,” Porthos agreed. “But can you tell me with any kind of certainty that those three men are the only ones we’ll have to worry about?” 

Aramis opened his mouth to respond, but closed it abruptly, conceding the big man’s point. Knowing his friend was finally listening with his head instead of his heart, Porthos pressed the advantage. 

“’Cause we ‘ave no idea if this town is goin’ to back us. And we don’t know if they have more men waiting in the wings.” He took another step forward as Aramis’ shoulders slumped in defeat. “I get it – we both do,” he looked to Athos who nodded in agreement. “None of us wants to let this stand, believe me. I want to rip them limb from limb for what they did, but right now, our best plan is to take the horses and go. We’re all tired, you can barely stand straight and I’d rather walk away than risk any of us under these conditions.”

Aramis’ head dropped back to the post and the three stood silent for a long moment before the marksman’s tired voice broke the impasse. 

“You’re right.”

Porthos blew a breath in relief and leaned back against the post on the opposite side of the aisle.

Athos nodded, indicating a job well done. “Then I suggest we saddle Esprit so that we’re prepared to leave the moment the rain lets up.”

Aramis nodded reluctantly and stepped into the stall as Porthos melted into the shadows to check on the other two horses stabled further down the aisle. Two of them were big Friesians, and if what their captive back in St. Germain had told them was true, they were more than likely stolen as well.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Porthos looked up from behind one of the big black horses to see a man standing at the far end of the stalls, just inside the doorway, pistol pointed directly at Aramis. The man motioned for Athos to step closer to the wounded Musketeer and the swordsman tensed but did as he was bade. A quick glance and a shake of a head told Porthos to stay where he was and the big man deftly stepped further back behind the bulk of the horse. Hopefully his dark hair and leathers would blend with the shadows, concealing him from the new arrival’s detection.

The man cursed as he approached the two soldiers, his eyes on Aramis, obviously recognizing the Musketeer they’d left for dead.

“It seems young Thibault isn’t as thorough as expected,” the bandit remarked. “You Musketeers don’t seem to die easily.”

“My apologies for the inconvenience,” Aramis returned. Porthos noted his friend had squared his shoulders, showing no indication of weakness in the face of the new threat. 

The thief chuckled at the marksman’s audacity. “And I see you’ve found one of those friends you spoke so highly of.” He let his gaze flicker to Athos momentarily before settling back on Aramis. “You are quickly becoming much more trouble than you’re worth.”

Aramis shrugged and turned to Athos. “I don’t know, I have been told I am quite worth the trouble on occasion.”

Athos reply was dry as parchment. “Opinions vary.”

Aramis feigned insult. “And here I told these men how concerned you would be at my delay.” He huffed a breath through his nose. “You’re hardly giving an impression of solidarity, my dear Athos.”

As the two Musketeers bickered keeping the gunman’s attention diverted, Porthos quietly made his way from the dark stall, pulling his dagger from its sheath and slipping behind the thief with a stealth borne of decades of practice on the streets of Paris. 

Aramis suddenly grinned, brows high, eyes shifting to the big body now directly behind the gunman. “What is your opinion on the matter, Porthos?”

Porthos placed the blade just below the bandit’s jaw, pressing the cold steel firmly into the vulnerable skin as he stepped into view. “I’ve always known you were trouble,” he growled. “But then, I’ve always rather enjoyed it myself.”

Aramis’ smile widened, satisfied. “Thank you,” he said, taking the pistol from the thief’s lax grip. He turned back to Athos. “I believe our plans have changed?”

Porthos shoved the thief back to the far end of the stalls by the scruff of his collar, the blade never leaving the tender skin of his throat. It was quite tempting to knick the man – accidentally of course – but his honor won out over his anger and he pushed him to the ground, towering above him, glowering in intimidation as the man scuttled back against the wall.

Athos stepped around Porthos’ bulk and crouched down before the thief.

“You are aware that attacking a Musketeer carries a penalty of death.” He presented it as a statement rather than a question, and Porthos had trouble hiding his smirk as the bandit’s eyes widened in fear.

“It wasn’t me,” he insisted. “I didn’t do anything. It was LaMere!”

Athos twisted, brows high in question as he tilted his head at Aramis.

“He speaks the truth,” the wounded Musketeer confirmed. “He didn’t raise a weapon.”

“I’ll lay odds he didn’t deter any being raised either,” Porthos growled.

Aramis shrugged a shoulder in confirmation.

Athos leaned an arm on his thigh, returning his attention to their captive. “Lucky for you, or else I would allow my friend to dispense the punishment you so rightly deserve.”

The thief’s eyes shifted from Porthos’ bulk to Aramis’ dark countenance before settling back on Athos, wide and anxious. “It was LaMere. He was the one who suggested we take the horse.”

“And where would I find this LaMere?”

“Inside. He’s inside the tavern. He sent me out to check that the horses weren’t spooked by the storm.”

Porthos chuckled at the man’s quick capitulation. “There truly is no honor among thieves.”

Athos nodded and stood. He flicked his chin toward a coil of rope hanging on a peg directly behind Aramis.

“Tie him up,” he ordered. “It appears we will be making an arrest after all.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

LaMere drained the mug and leaned back, his eyes searching the open doorway for Blanchet’s return. He had no idea how long ago the man had left to check on the horses, but his impatience was getting the better of him and it seemed much to long if nothing were amiss. Though Blanchet was a good man with a weapon, he was not as adept with the horses as Rousseau. If any of them had been spooked by the storm, it was conceivable Blanchet would have trouble calming them. He was tempted to drag Rousseau from his bed, but the thought of listening to the man whine more about his wounded arm advocated against it.

Another clap of thunder shook the small building, making LaMere’s decision for him. Pushing back from the table, he paused, eyeing the rain as it crashed to the ground. From the few times he’d stopped in this village, he knew there was a covered walkway at the back of the tavern leading around to a trail on the far side of the stable. The trail would be no more than a river of mud right now, but it couldn’t be any worse than the road out front, and at least he would be protected partly by the overhang of the tavern’s roof. Leaving Blanchet’s mug sitting on the table, he indicated to the barkeep to bring two more before slipping out the back door and into the storm.

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Athos stepped into the tavern, his eyes raking the interior in the dim light of the afternoon. The rain was still coming down with alarming intensity, making it difficult to detect any threat approaching. Despite the sensory blindness, he and Porthos had managed to make it from the stables with only minimal hindrance from the storm. Once inside, they shook off the water cascading from their hats and cloaks, ready for any threat they may encounter.

To their disappointment, the room was empty save for the barkeep, who leaned against the backside of the crude wooden bar.

“A day not fit for man nor beast,” he commented with a gap-toothed smile. “Could I interest you gentlemen in something to drink? Some warmed wine perhaps to fend off this unholy chill?”

Both men nodded their agreement, stepping up the bar, leaning against the rough wood.

“We are looking for a man we were told would be waiting here,” Athos informed the keep as he set two mugs down before them. The Musketeer glanced behind him at the empty tables, noting two mugs sitting atop the one closest to the stone fireplace. 

“As you can see, the storm has kept most people away,” the keep swept a hand toward the empty room. “Why are you seeking this man, may I ask?”

Porthos leaned forward, resting both arms on the bar, sweeping his cloak from the pauldron on his shoulder as he picked up one of the mugs and took a sip. He didn’t raise his eyes to the barkeep, but the message was clear nonetheless.

Athos rolled his eyes at his friend’s complete lack of subtlety. “We are of the King’s Musketeers,’ he informed the keep. “The man we seek attacked one of our own a few lieue from here. He would’ve been accompanied by two or three others and leading at least three stolen horses. Have you seen anyone matching that description recently?”

The keep’s eyes flickered to the rear of the room before settling back on the Musketeer’s.

“Oui,” he replied, a slight tremor in his voice. “I don’t want any trouble, Monsieur. This is a peaceful town.”

“And we do not desire to cause any,” Athos agreed. “But these men are dangerous and if you know anything, it is your duty to inform us.”

The keep swallowed, shifting his gaze to Porthos who had not said a word, his dark expression doing all the talking for him.

“There is one upstairs,” the man confessed, his voice hushed, rushed. “He is wounded and I doubt will resist.” Athos motioned for Porthos to head up the stairs, but paused when the barkeep continued. “The other two were here a bit ago. One left and didn’t return. The other – the one who looked like he was in charge – he went out the back only moments ago.”

Both Musketeers glanced toward the back of the room.

“There’s a walkway out back,” the keep informed them. “Gives a bit of protection from the rain.”

“And just where does this walkway lead?” Porthos spoke for the first time, causing the man to jump at the low growl.

“To - toward the stable.”

The Musketeers exchanged a look of alarm then bolted from the tavern.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Aramis finished securing the bridle around Esprit’s head and leaned against the animal, running a hand down her crest and withers. He closed his eyes, his head beginning to pound again, the adrenaline from the encounter with the thief wearing off, leaving him weak and sweating. He was still dizzy, whether it be from the blood loss or concussion, and he allowed himself a moment of indulgence before he began questioning the prisoner.

Athos and Porthos had braved the storm to confront LaMere in the tavern. Aramis had wanted to accompany them, but he’d seen the folly of that wish before voicing the desire aloud. Not only was he still hampered by his injuries, if LaMere was the man who had struck him the final blow, he would, no doubt, easily be recognized. If the thief attempted to fight his way out of the encounter, his vulnerability would be putting all their lives at risk. It was a chance he refused to take. His friends had come this far on his request alone – against their better judgment – and he would not put them in further danger by insisting on such a selfish course of action.

So he had volunteered to remain behind to guard the prisoner, much to both of his friends’ surprise. 

“He won’t go down without a fight.”

Aramis leaned out of the stall, eyeing the prisoner trussed up against the far wall of the stable, directly in line with the aisle of stalls.

“LaMere,” the thief clarified. “He may not be a Musketeer, but he’s just as hard to kill. Your friends have no idea who they’re dealing with.”

Despite the man’s boast, Aramis had no doubt Porthos and Athos could handle themselves.

“We have no desire to kill anyone,” Aramis informed him smoothly. “Our job is to see justice served, not dispense it ourselves.” He huffed a laugh and shrugged. “Unless we’re given no choice.” His voice hardened. “I believe they are both hoping for such a circumstance to present itself.”

Thunder boomed and Esprit skittered, tossing her head anxiously at the noise. Aramis reached up and petted her muzzle, brushing the tuft of coarse hair that fell between her eyes. “Shhhh, it’s just the storm, Esprit. There’s nothing to fear –“

A door at the back of the row of stalls banged open and Aramis turned to find the man who had confronted him on the road standing framed in the doorway. Hampered by Esprit’s proximity, he reached for his pistol but was brought up short as LaMere leveled his own, obvious surprise at finding the man he’d thought dead standing before him alive and well etched on his face.

“You should’ve stayed dead, Musketeer” the bandit growled, stepping inside and slamming the door behind him. He waved the pistol, motioning for Aramis to move down the aisle toward the other thief. 

Slowly, carefully, Aramis raised his hands and took a step back, his heart beating in his throat. He swallowed, forcing his fear down, his breath settling, the pain in his head shoved aside as he focused on the advancing threat.

“My friends will return in a moment,” Aramis kept his voice level, non-threatening. “Perhaps it would be wise for you to leave while you can.”

“He’s telling the truth, LaMere,” the second thief spoke up. “They just headed over to the tavern to look for you. We have to get out of here quick, before they return!”

LaMere didn’t take his eyes from Aramis’, walking forward confidently until the barrel of the pistol pressed against the buckles on the Musketeers doublet.

“Too bad they didn’t just wait here. I would very much have liked to meet them.” He pushed against Aramis’ chest, forcing the Musketeer to take a stumbling step back. LaMere took another step forward, placing him directly in front of the stall where Esprit danced, agitated. The thief smiled and straightened his arm, sighting the pistol right between Aramis’ eyes. “I guess I’ll just have to leave them a token of my esteem.”

“Me first,” Aramis replied before pursing his lips and giving two quick, sharp whistles.

Immediately, Esprit reared, bringing her front hooves down on the gunman’s arm. LaMere’s finger tightened on the trigger and the gun fired, the shot echoing in the small space as the thunder once again crashed outside.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Porthos’ cloak fluttered in the wind, the driving rain soaking the few dry parts he had left as he dashed back toward the stables. He didn’t bother worrying about his own comfort, his only concern the wounded friend they had left behind.

It had been Aramis’ decision to stay and guard the prisoner, a gesture that had elicited surprise and relief at the same time. While Porthos wanted nothing more than to see this LaMere pay for what he’d done, he knew the revenge was ultimately Aramis’ to seek. They gone into the tavern with the intention of arresting the thief with little trouble, but Porthos had hoped he’d fight. It would be a pleasure to teach the man the consequences of assailing a Musketeer.

LeMere, unfortunately had other ideas and Porthos ran as fast as he could in the slippery mud, desperate to get back to Aramis before the thief found the wounded man alone and vulnerable.

A few paces from the door, he thought he heard a shrill whistle and a loud bang ran out from inside, almost concealed under a crash of thunder from above. Knowing Athos was right behind him, Porthos drew his pistol and slid the final distance to the door, grabbing the rain slick handle and throwing it open.

He dashed inside, eyes quickly scanning the interior, stopping so abruptly Athos nearly took him down from behind.

“Nice of you to join us.”

Porthos gaped at the scene before him.

Aramis stood in the aisle between the stalls, Esprit by his side, the horse’s head hanging over the Musketeers shoulder. His pistol was aimed at the floor of the stable, a dark haired man lying at his feet, one arm cradled against his chest. The other prisoner still sat against the wall, eyes wide with shock. The man writhing on the floor – LaMere Porthos presumed – glared up at Aramis, hastily shuffling back against a stall door as Esprit tapped a hoof on the straw covered floor.

“I see you have everything under control,” Athos intoned, hooking his weapon back on his belt and stepping around Porthos’ unmoving bulk.

“I had a bit of help,” Aramis admitted, reaching under Esprit’s neck and patting the horse on the side of her cheek. Esprit tossed her head and whinnied as Athos motioned for LaMere to join his comrade against the far wall of the stable.

“Keep that animal away from me,” he muttered, wincing as he settled onto the ground, the motion jostling his obviously broken arm.

Aramis simply smiled.

“You goin’ to explain what the hell just happened here?” Porthos finally shook off his surprise, clipping his pistol back onto his belt and stepping fully into the stable. He stood, brow furrowed, hands on hips, looking from Aramis to the prisoners then back again.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Aramis informed him. He glanced up at the horse, who hadn’t moved from his side. “Monsieur LaMere just learned a valuable lesson.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“That some things are much more than they appear to be,” Aramis ran his hand under Esprit’s chin and the mare nuzzled at his palm. “He mistook Esprit for a simple horse, property that was replaceable. What he didn’t realize was this horse is special.”

Porthos grinned, playing along. “Because she’s yours?”

“No my friend, because she has the spirit of a Musketeer.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It took another few hours for the storm to pass, leaving the air musty and heavy with moisture. They saddled up the other horses, placing the thieves on them after having retrieved the one Aramis had wounded in the attack from the room above the tavern. Athos had attempted to question LaMere, asking who had paid him to steal these particular horses, noting they were all breeds favored by the regiment, but the thief had refused to answer. Athos had shrugged it off, knowing LaMere’s future held only pain and suffering if he continued to resist. 

The wind had died down for the most part, but it still blew their heavy cloaks back as they rode, forcing them to wrap the heavy material around them to stave off the worst of the chill. At least their clothes were dry, having taken the time to place their shirts and doublets by the fire while their prisoners were secured in the stable, shivering and no doubt cursing them for their unfair treatment.

They had decided to transport the thieves as far as St. Germaine, leaving them with the magistrate along with the young thief he and Porthos had apprehended the day before. While Aramis had balked at the suggestion that he was not up to the task, he had to admit transporting four prisoners with three men – one wounded – was a risk they needn’t take. Under the circumstances, it would be better to leave them in St. Germaine and have Treville send a troop to retrieve them and perhaps investigate further. Maybe some time behind bars would encourage one of them to talk. 

Aramis had recalled a few things as his headache retreated to something more manageable, the wine, food and warmth offered by the innkeeper doing wonders to replenish his fortitude. As they rode along, Athos noticed the marksman’s frown and shifted Roger closer to Esprit.

“Is your head still troubling you?”

Porthos rode up front, leading two of the other horses while Athos led the one holding LaMere. The big man looked back in concern at the swordsman’s question, but Aramis waved him off, smiling to assure his friend he was all right.

“I was just remembering something.” Aramis glanced at LaMere who rode behind them, one arm held tight against his body in a sling, the other secured to a rope that looped around his waist, knotted to the pommel of the saddle. The thief appeared to be in some pain, and Aramis knew how difficult it could be to ride with broken bones, but the arm had been set properly and Aramis found he held little sympathy for the man’s discomfort. 

“Something about the attack?” Athos prompted, noting the marksman’s gaze. 

Aramis nodded, turning his head forward, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “After I was shot, before he struck me and rendered me unconscious, LaMere spoke, mentioning a name. I didn’t think anything of it before, but I remember it sounded familiar.” He raised his eyes to meet Athos’. “He said the name Gaudet. He said ‘the Musketeers are Gaudet’s problem.’”

“Gaudet?” Athos repeated, pursing his lips in thought. “A common enough name. I believe there is even a Gaudet in the Cardinal’s Red Guard.”

Aramis sighed. “That is why it sounded familiar, though I’m sure it’s a coincidence.” He laughed. “Like you said, it’s a fairly common name. Besides, what would a Red Guard need Musketeer mounts for, after all?”

Athos shrugged. “I’m sure it is. We will inform Treville and leave it to him to investigate further. I will suggest he send Cornet and his troop to St. Germaine when we return to Paris.”

Aramis grunted in reluctant agreement. Athos knew the marksman would have preferred to see LaMere and his men all the way to the Bastille, but was thankful his friend showed enough good sense to realize it a risk not worth taking.

It was obvious the man was still deep in thought, so Athos prompted once again. “Is that all that is bothering you?”

Aramis looked up and took a deep breath. “I’m not bothered,” he explained. “Just thankful the two of you found me when you did. I don’t know how much further I would’ve been able to go if you hadn’t shown up.” He smiled, and Athos could read the sincerity in his eyes. “Thank you. I owe you my life.” He chuckled. “Again.”

“If you want to pay us back, you still owe us supper,” Porthos called back from his place up front. 

Aramis feigned shock. “Porthos! You would take advantage of a wounded man?”

The big Musketeer’s shoulders shook with laughter. “If it got me free food? Absolutely. Besides, you lost the bet. Paying up is the honorable thing to do.” 

Aramis clicked his tongue in dismay and Athos couldn’t help but grin. He raised his voice to address Porthos. “Perhaps we could make an exception this time? I think Aramis has suffered enough.”

Aramis tipped his hat. “Thank you, Athos.” He raised his voice to match his friend’s. “It’s nice to know at least one of my brothers has a conscience.”

“Oh, I have a conscience,” Porthos called back. “I’m just hungry.”

Their laughter rang out just as the sun peaked out from the clouds above.

**Finis**

_Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you Deana!!_


End file.
